


Something Sensible

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Gen Work, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, ranging from gen to pairing-centric. Some chapters are explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patricia

**Author's Note:**

> A mini ToC with pairing and if gen or smut, for your convenience:
> 
> 1\. Patricia (Patricia/ Trevor, Gen)  
> 2\. Ron (Gen)  
> 3\. Carry (Trevor/Michael, Gen)  
> 4\. Feed (Trevor/Michael, mild)  
> 5\. Cops (Trevor/Michael, smut)

Trevor’s taken by her right away. She has red, curly hair, and a gentle smile; she looks like church windows, with a warm light streaming through, a sense of calm and forgiveness that washes over him and tugs at his heart strings. He’s in _love_.

That’s why he can’t stand it when Martin Madrazo is snapping at her to fetch coffee, or to get out of the way. He’s full of shit; Patricia is a lovely woman. She deserves respect. After he comes back, riding high off the thrill of a job well done and itching for some monetary compensation, Martin rebuffs him. Martin _ignores_ him, momentarily, to tell his wife that she was in the way, they were talking business, you stupid woman, and HOW DARE Martin talk to HIS MOTHER LIKE THAT—

As if scolding a child, Trevor grabs Martin by the ear to drag him away; but, strangely, his strength is more than he had meant, and his flesh is tearing away in his hands. Patricia is screaming. He doesn’t know what to do, how to keep Martin from making her scream anymore, especially as Martin’s nearby associates start coming into their boss’s house to see what’s going on and end up dead in the foyer. He ties her up, and slings her small body over a shoulder and then into the trunk of Michael’s car, a stream of apologies never failing to leave his lips.

To Trevor, Patricia Madrazo looks like Mother Mary; she smooths hair away from his brow, and that one night he wakes up with nightmares she lets him lay his head in her lap. Michael is more than furious with him, but he doesn’t understand. Patricia takes it upon herself to straighten up his trailer; strangely shy, and clumsy, he drops to his knees in front of her, adam’s apple bobbing. His hands are shaking. She is calm, and despite her small frame silently pulls him back up to his feet. At first, he takes it as a slight, lashes at her out of shame; _why did you clean this fucking pig-sty then, who ARE YOU, what do you WANT then, how dare you, don’t call ME a MOTHERFUCKER, 16 is the age of CONSENT—_

She places a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t have the heart to knock it away. He sobs openly into her chest, fists his hands in the pink terry-cloth fabric of her Swallow Co. jacket. She strokes his head and murmurs in Spanish into his ear. 

Michael doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need to. It doesn’t matter; Patricia loves him, and Patricia thinks he’s mature.


	2. Ron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mini ToC with pairing and if gen or smut, for your convenience:
> 
> 1\. Patricia (Patricia/ Trevor, Gen)  
> 2\. Ron (Gen)  
> 3\. Carry (Trevor/Michael, Gen)  
> 4\. Feed (Trevor/Michael, mild)  
> 5\. Cops (Trevor/Michael, smut)

Ron tells Trevor, twitchy and yet with a dazed smile that he has left his wife. The response from the other man is a wracking cough of white, acrid smoke. It’s all thanks to Trevor, his best friend, who opened his eyes to that she-witch, and the government, and convinced him to leave his accounting job. And now that he’d been kicked out, he was going to be moving in next door to him in his own trailer. Sallow skin pulled low under eyes that flitted to Trevor’s pipe-- And wasn’t that great, Trevor, he left his wife and now he could be there for Trevor Philips Industries and associated jobs, that he would be there for him—

Trevor thought he would have felt better about it, but disappointment curls up in his gut, hot and fast. He shouts at Ron to get out, and his pipe bursts mere inches away from his stupid bucket-hat covered head. He scatters out, like a rat, Trevor’s roaring specter on his heels. In reality, he goes as far as his front porch. Trevor tumbles into a week-long bender that ends in gasoline and him shouting at deer in a bloodied woman’s halter top.

_I left my wife ‘cause of you, Trevor!_

He had thought he would have felt better, knowing that it was possible to break apart a mostly loving marriage. It tastes like bile in the back of his mouth instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you look on LifeInvader, Ron thanks Trevor for 'scaring away his wife'... hm.
> 
> As always, crits, comments etc. mucho appreciated, and if you'd like to read my rougher writing and headcanons feel free to check out my tumblr at hello-imasalesman. :)


	3. Carry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mini ToC with pairing and if gen or smut, for your convenience:
> 
> 1\. Patricia (Patricia/ Trevor, Gen)  
> 2\. Ron (Gen)  
> 3\. Carry (Trevor/Michael, Gen)  
> 4\. Feed (Trevor/Michael, mild)  
> 5\. Cops (Trevor/Michael, smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt by garbage-chann over on Tumblr: Trevor and Michael sharing an intimate moment after Michael had carried a severely injured Trevor miles to a hospital when the Bodhi was rammed off the road.

Trevor’s head is pounding; not in apost-gasoline binge way, not in the strip club music mixed with coke and molly way, not in the brain swell go go _go_ of meth but the telltale thrum of downers. His mind is cloyed, sticky and slow; the only thing that’s moving fast is the inevitable paranoia that will set in soon. He moves his left arm with some effort, barely able to raise it more than a few inches before falling limp against his lap. His right arm, he cannot move.

Panic grips his throat as he peels his eyes open, wincing. His right arm is in a cast, hanging above him dumbly, useless. A growl wells up in his throat—

At his left, Michael stirs. Trevor’s growl immediately dies at the sight of him in a chair pulled up flush to the bedside. Despite being sound asleep, his forehead was creased heavily with worry, brows knotted. His lips, parted and quirked in the slightest of frowns, had a split and the blood had dried over, right down the middle.

Trevor had been driving, Los Santos Rock Radio cranked up high; the station to appease Michael, the deafening sound more his liking. Michael was trying to shout something over the din. They had been bickering, like usual, back-and-forth calling of snakes and psychopaths and assholes. Trevor can’t remember the specifics of it now, just that between Michael’s fat man bellow, the blare of Kenny Loggins and the twitchy thrum of meth under the surface had all been distracting him at once; maybe it was a slip of the mind, but he had never been a good driver, and the Bodhi wasn’t the surest and quickest of cars, especially when you were trying to outrun a group of meth-head dealers who had apparently been antagonized in some way.

A lump forms in his throat. Snatches of memory slunk into his mind, hesitant and unbidden: Michael shouting his name in his face, to the dull background of gunfire. His body, heavy, so heavy, suddenly becoming weightless. His horizon shifted, dropped, and finally settled in between two arms. And his name, heavy in his ears straight from Michael’s lips, keeping tempo with footsteps that jarred Trevor at each beat.

Trevor reached out, uncharacteristically hesitant to touch the lips that had scabbed over and split from undoubtedly spilling his name so many times, rough like gravel, it surely must have hurt to even mention him when his body had felt so heavy in his arms. Had cut him in the same way Michael’s name had torn his mouth apart back in Ludendorff’s snowy cemetery. Michael leans unconsciously into his touches, flinching at the pressure to his lip yet wanting it all the same. Trevor’s hand changes course, to cup Michael’s face, swipe the pad of his thumb over the other man’s cheekbone. An IV drips steadily. Trevor matches the strokes of his thumb to the tempo; slowly, slowly, the lines on Michael’s forehead smooth out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a dweeb reposting my end notes thing every time but of course I adore people who leave comments and critiques and stuff. So yep. Thanks for reading!


	4. Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mini ToC with pairing and if gen or smut, for your convenience:
> 
> 1\. Patricia (Patricia/ Trevor, Gen)  
> 2\. Ron (Gen)  
> 3\. Carry (Trevor/Michael, Gen)  
> 4\. Feed (Trevor/Michael, mild)  
> 5\. Cops (Trevor/Michael, smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be for The Las Venturas Job but I decided to cut it. Warnings for light drug use, takes place post-game.

“Open up.”

Michael’s lip curled back. “You ain’t feedin’ it to me like a child—“

Trevor’s eyes, hooded and dark, seemed to glint in the hotel’s dim lighting. “Open up for Uncle T.” There was a low growl in his voice as he pressed the thick pill to Michael’s lips. The man frowned; he could feel the chalkiness of the tablet, and the rough pads of Trevor’s fingers. They weren’t pushing, but they were firm, and insistent.

Michael wrinkled his nose, then slowly, slowly parted his lips, tongue darting out to take the pill quickly from Trevor’s fingers and swallowing it whole. It stuck sluggish in his throat, and he grunted, gesturing over toward the side table. Trevor handed his bottle of beer over, eyes never leaving Michael as he chugged nearly half of it in one go.

Trevor watched him with hooded eyes; when Michael finally opened his own after a grimace and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Trevor could almost swear the man shivered. He looked away.

“Now what?”

“Now my pill, you lazy fuck.” Trevor sat back on the bed, leaning on his hands. Michael sighed, holding out the triple-stacked pill flat on his palm. There was already a slight sheen to his brow. “You want me to lick it off your palm? ‘cause I’m gonna.”

“No—“ Michael pulled his hand away as Trevor ducked down, smirking at the faltering conviction in his voice; he bit at the air where Michael’s hand had once been, like a crocodile. “You really wanna do this?” This, being vague. This, meaning drugs, the little mean-spirited games they were pulling on each other, the strangely tender, mocking actions of feeding each other club drugs like they were twenty year olds again.

Trevor’s teeth clicked together again, loudly, brows knit together. “You wanna not be such a damn spoil sport?” But he knew. He _knew;_ it was in his voice, thick with disappointment. Trying to craft another Michael Townley original like a priest chanting at the altar, with old bits of their past to throw into the fire. Drugs, and strange hotel rooms, sitting face to face on a bed dipping low with their combined weight.

In his efforts Trevor was creating a Frankenstein, not a man; he straightened up, his back popping, tucking his emotions away. He thrust his hand out, reaching for Michael’s. “Look, just give it to me, then.”

Michael pulled his hand back, out of Trevor’s reach. His features softened. “No…”

“Jesus, Mikey, give me my fuckin’…”

Michael leaned forward, and though it was a fluid motion it was much too fast for Trevor. Too fast, and that soft body of his was looming dangerously in his personal space, too close for strangers to be. Thick fingers reached up to take Trevor’s cheek, and he swore Michael purposefully was adjusting his grip to feel the rough day-old stubble, swipe along his cheekbones and a small scab that marred the skin there. His words came out hushed, “Share..”

Michael shifted his grip, fully taking Trevor’s chip into his hand. The other, holding the pill, catches Trevor’s eyes and he can’t pull them away.

“Open your mouth.”

Measured, exact. Trevor couldn’t breathe; he’s burning up, the sight of Townley filling the scope of his vision beyond his actual physical presence. There was a thumb against his mouth, and automatically his lips part before he can start tracing his cupid’s bow, or ask him to _open your mouth_ in that tone again. His tongue lolls out just beyond the edge of his lips, and the hand on his chin flexed, held on a little harder.

Michael placed the green tablet on his tongue, and Trevor closes his mouth, swallows it as the hand on his chin slides down to his neck. Momentarily, the vision of it clamping around his throat, strangling the life out of him in a moment crossed his mind. (Made him even harder than he already was, straining against his pants.) But instead his fingers were curling and his palm held against his adam’s apple. Trevor doesn’t deny the expectant look in Michael’s eyes as they flit up from his hands to Trevor’s face; he swallowed, languidly, and relished the pressure over his neck.

“That good for Uncle T?” He mused, raising his hand once more; Trevor leaned forward, seeking his touch, as it hung suspended in the air. They froze. Michael’s hand closed into a fist, and he let his arm drop, pushing himself up and off the bed.

A color he hadn’t believed his face could take was wrapping its way up Trevor’s neck and behind his ears. He had gotten needy, and that was the exact moment that had sent De Santa pulling away, brushing imaginary lint off his lap and the telling bulge there, and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “You ready to head on out to the bars?”

Trevor’s lip curled back, and in seconds he was up on his feet, past Michael. “Don’t have to ask me twice, Townley! Let’s get the fuck outta this joint, see what kinda tail we can scare up.”

“Is that literal scaring on your part, T?”

“I’m surprised you get so much use outta that funny bone with the amount of fat around it, M!” Trevor called back over his shoulder. Michael’s face turned sour as he followed him out, closing their hotel room door behind him.


	5. Cops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think technically a drabble is supposed to be under 1,000 words but uh.. this is only 200 over... and i don't feel like making a new story for ~1,000 words of smut. Based off an anon requested prompt- handcuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mini ToC with pairing and if gen or smut, for your convenience:
> 
> 1\. Patricia (Patricia/ Trevor, Gen)  
>  2\. Ron (Gen)  
>  3\. Carry (Trevor/Michael, Gen)  
>  4\. Feed (Trevor/Michael, mild)  
>  5\. Cops (Trevor/Michael, smut)

It starts as a joke, of course. They’re _cops_. That’s the whole joke, and that’s the punchline: Trevor’s hacking laughter as they stepped out in unison from where they had gotten changed into highway patrol uniforms, the clipped sound of his boots, the way he twirls the handcuffs around his finger. Swine dressed as pigs, and all, though Trevor is more of the filthy kind and Michael is more a pig in a blanket.

“If only Franklin was with us. He would be our _precious_ teacup pig. Our _son_.” Trevor hiccups out faux-tears, arm wrapped around Michael’s unwilling shoulders as he growls back, “Jesus, T, I get it, cops are pigs.”

Neither of them are particularly amiable today, but Trevor’s being especially grating, picking at Michael's nerves until they fray. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You’re a cop, now!” He only manages to bring Michael close once more before the man bodily throws him off, stalking a few paces away to the opposite wall, “Truly boot-licking, donut-eating, dick-sucking subservient to the FIB, and putting the bad guys away after a montage scene.” He’s spinning those handcuffs as he adjusts his crotch in the too-tight highwaisted trousers, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Michael rolls his neck like the rising hackles of a cat; “Fuck off.” Trevor saunters over, the handcuffs still twirling, and with an annoyed grunt Michael snatches for them. Trevor, however, has done this before, with multiple other cops (that, coincidentally, he’s also had sex with). He pulls back and, grabbing the chain, flicks it forward; the serrated teeth of the ratchet slide into the pawl from the jerk of his wrist, and another jerk pulls Michael towards him by the metal, bracelet. Except, Michael isn’t the standard Cops Trevor Fucks size, and the usual move sends the older man swearing and barreling into him, knocking them both ass over tea kettle on the floor—

Michael straddles Trevor’s form, and he raises a fist to punch Trevor right in the throat, but his arm only rises so far before it hits a block. A block in the form of Trevor’s similarly caught wrist.

Trevor grins, his eyes narrowing to slits as Michael jerks his hand up with a growl, testing the bond; the metal bites into the tanned skin of Trevor’s wrist, burns against the bone protruding there, but does not budge. “Are you fuckin’ _kidding_ me right now, T? We got a job to do--!”

His body stiffens. Trevor casually plants his heels against the ground, pushing his hips up against the form above him. “I oughta be able to pick a li’l keyhole-“ He muses in salacious sing-song, relishing the furious curl of Michael’s lips and the flush that’s peaking up over the beige collar of his uniform. Once more, Michael tries to jerk his wrist; the chain jangles, uselessly. He jerks it again. His laughter mingles with the jingle of metal. “For a favor in return?” He punctuates his request by pushing his hips up against those beige pants, slightly too-tight for Michael's body.

Michael and Trevor’s teeth are almost louder than the chain of the handcuffs as their lips clash together; it’s _all_ teeth, Michael is pissed, and it only makes Trevor moan and squirm with the warm weight of his body on top of him.

“Officer T _likey_.” Trevor purrs obnoxiously when they part, feeling his cock jump when Michael’s hand flexes testily into a fist next to his face.

“Let’s get this over with,” Michael grunts, separating from Trevor and his insistent hips rocking against his posterior. He grapples Trevor up as best as he can with the limited movement in his right hand, and taking care to keep the handcuffs from biting into his flesh any more than they were, Michael pulls Trevor onto his lap; his legs immediately wrap around him, take to his waist like a fish to water. Michael’s hands go for the front of Trevor’s pants; for once, they’re cooperating, as Trevor keeps his twitchy hands at rest to allow Michael ease in sliding down his zipper and pulling him out. Michael does the same, and soon they have each others shafts in hand.

Their hands stutter; the chain clangs, and Michael curses under his breath. Trevor has quick, furious strokes, and skilled hands; Michael’s stroke has always been clumsier, and slower, with a focus on the head. But being chained, their paces start to match, stroking in sync to the clink, clink of metal that had been annoying Michael to death minutes before. Trevor lets his eyes slide close and grabs the back of Michael’s neck as he hunches over him, listens to the stilted breaths that are bordering on moans, presses sloppy kisses to his thick neck. Michael’s always been the quieter of the two, and Trevor fills up the near-silence with his own sounding out: things like, _fuck Mikey_ , or _keep touchin’ Officer T like that ‘n you’ll be up for parole_ or _I wanna suck your fuckin’ soul out of your dick_. The first words are met with silence in return; the next few, and Michael’s pants bleed into moans, and Trevor swears for one moment Michael makes a noise that could be construed as a whine when he pairs _I’m going to ride your cock on those police choppers we got after this-_ with a vicious twist of his hand.

Trevor’s not surprised when Michael’s breathing nearly stops and his come is spilling over his fingers; he milks his release, trying to keep pace with Michael’s now erratic strokes, and the feel of Michael’s throat reverberating with release against his lips pushes him into his own climax.

He sags into Michael’s form, listens to the other man’s breathing slowly settle into a normal tempo. Something vibrates against his ass. Michael groans, giving Trevor a none-too-gentle shove off of his lap. “It’s Franklin. Get these damn cuffs off of me.”

Trevor grabs the handcuff attached to Michael, and when he looks away to button up his pants and pull out his phone, he pulls at the spring release on the high-quality toy handcuffs.

Michael’s up on his feet, as fast as a man his age without support could be, as soon as he’s unattached from Trevor. He fumbles with his cellphone, still buckling his slacks with one hand as he turns away from Trevor and swipes his phone on to answer with a hello.

Trevor pushes the patrol helmet onto his head, strutting around Michael until he’s in his field of vision once more. “Yeah, we’ll uh… we’ll pick you up going through Grapeseed.” Michael rasps into the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, tearing his eyes away from Trevor sucking his fingers clean until they were glistening. Franklin doesn’t seem to notice. He’s rubbing his wrist idly. “Get the driver’s going up to speed.”

He hangs up, just as Trevor sidles up behind him. He clears his throat in Michael’s ear, reaching around to run a finger up the thigh of his pant leg as his hips shift against Michael’s ass. “You, uh. Got some powder from your donut there, partner. Or, uh, maybe it’s some glaze?”

He’s off before Michael can swing for him, stumbling backwards and cursing as he rubs fruitlessly at the come stain.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, crits, comments etc. mucho appreciated, and if you'd like to read my rougher writing and headcanons feel free to check out my tumblr at hello-imasalesman. :)


End file.
